Sweep was struggling. He had made it out of his sleeping bag (just) and crawled into the living area where Auntie Angela had made him a coffee in his favourite Animal mug - but even the mug was a bit loud for Sweep's poor heid this morning. He'd spent all of yesterday trying to lie still and willing the world to stop spinning, interspersed with periods of heaving, retching, technicolour yawning, blowing chunks, and other forms of vomiting. Sweep decided he may have had a bad pastie which had made him ill. But, just to be sure, he decided that he would never, never, NEVER, drink special apple pop from Polperro EVER again. Just to be on the safe side, he decided that he was never going to drink any kind of special pop at all ever again. He would no longer be a pop-tart.
Aunite Angela stroked Sweep's brow gently, while the Cubs were giggling at the state he was in even after a whole day in bed. "We're not sure that special pop agrees with Sweeps", they said. "Uurrrrrrggghhh", said Sweep.
Auntie Angela told Sweep that he'd feel better after some more coffee and a shower, and then everyone would get in the car to go to the Eden Project for the day. Sweep wasn't too sure about a car journey, but thought that maybe if he stuck his head out of the window and gulped down fresh air all the way, he might survive the journey. The Eden Project would be warm and reasonably quiet, so perhaps that would be OK.
Sweep gave a little moan, finished his coffee, and staggered off to the showers to try to wake himself up a bit.
"Bloody special pop", he thought. "Grrr!"
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